


Goal Line

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:58:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: He doesn’t say anything, do anything; for that moment he’s just glad—no matter how their relationship progresses, he wants more moments like this.(nba!tatsuya x nhl!shuu)





	Goal Line

**Author's Note:**

> same verse as sharp angle (though reading one is certainly not dependent on reading the other)

They’re getting to the point where Shuuzou almost can’t count the number of times they’ve hooked up on both his hands, and he knows if he wants to make this something more he’s got to make a move now. The signals he’s getting from Tatsuya are mixed at best—quick responses to his texts about hockey or congratulating his play (Shuuzou still doesn’t know very much about basketball, but it’s clear even to him that Tatsuya’s pretty fucking good at it, and though he doesn’t always know the proper terms to describe it he always gets a positive response from Tatsuya), but only as quick as the way he leaves in the morning after spending the night at Shuuzou’s. He lets Shuuzou stay at his place, makes enough coffee for both of them; he’s started buying packets of sugar because Shuuzou uses them; he kisses Shuuzou goodbye. But there’s still so much Tatsuya hasn’t shown, kept to himself intentionally whether by omission or by locking it away inside of him, and Shuuzou’s not sure how much of it is the kind of person Tatsuya is and how much of it is in an effort to keep their relationship no-strings-attached. And, whichever it is, Shuuzou wants to know Tatsuya well enough to be able to tell the difference, if not to read his placid face than to take him by a big enough surprise at some point to break the façade.

And maybe it’ll make him pull away (if Tatsuya doesn’t want him like this); maybe it’ll just make things awkward for a while. But Shuuzou’s not going to hold his tongue and fall harder and make the inevitable point where he has to let it out that much worse for both of them. Even if Tatsuya doesn’t feel the same, he deserves to know. If he does, then maybe they should have been doing this a while ago, but at this point it’s better late than never (better this late than too late).

Tatsuya’s pulled the covers up around him, watching Shuuzou get into his gameday suit, gaze shamelessly traveling all over Shuuzou. It feels pretty damn good, and maybe Shuuzou’s getting into it a little too much, putting on his socks slowly and taking his time with each button on his shirt. He rolls up his sleeves and puts on his pants, and he hears Tatsuya almost sigh in the background. Now’s as good a time as any.

He sits on the edge of the bed and Tatsuya rolls a little closer.

“Hey,” he says, sleep still clinging to the edges of his voice.

“Hey, you,” Shuuzou says, reaching out to capture one of Tatsuya’s hands (smaller, pale and well-taken-care-of, hard to reconcile with the rougher edges that Tatsuya’s let him see, but at the same time making perfect sense). “You busy on Thursday evening?”

(There’s no game for either of them; he’d double-checked.)

“Don’t think so. Why?”

“You want to go to the Riveters game with me?”

It comes out faster than he’d like; Shuuzou wants to cringe at the way he sounds like he’s fourteen instead of twenty-eight. He shouldn’t be this nervous.

“Are you asking me on a date, Shuu?” There’s a smile pushing at the corners of Tatsuya’s mouth.

“Yeah,” says Shuuzou.

“Then, yes,” says Tatsuya.

He pulls Shuuzou down by the front of his shirt (maybe he should have done his tie first) and into a kiss, a little less deep and forceful than usual. Shuuzou pulls away a few seconds later, his free hand having come up involuntarily to Tatsuya’s hair, thumbing over his cheekbone.

“You’re going to make me late.”

“We can’t have that,” says Tatsuya, pushing lightly at his chest. “who else will play the point?”

“Maybe the Habs are going to pay off the refs and we won’t get a PP tonight,” says Shuuzou, kissing Tatsuya again quickly.

He laughs, and Shuuzou grins back at him. He doesn’t say anything, do anything; for that moment he’s just glad—no matter how their relationship progresses, he wants more moments like this.

“You’re running the clock down,” says Tatsuya. “Trains only run so often, you know.”

“Drive me?” says Shuuzou, getting up and grabbing his tie from where it hangs on the back of Tatsuya’s desk chair.

“Train’s quicker,” says Tatsuya. “But. Sometime.”

It almost slips out, the first unintentional thing Shuuzou’s really seen from him, the first sign that he’s as nervous about their relationship going forward, toward something more serious; it’s probably not an offer he’d make lightly.

“I’ll have to take you up on that,” says Shuuzou (the only reason he doesn’t drive here and back is because parking in the city is such a fucking nightmare; he’s got money but he’s not going to shell out sixty or seventy if he’s going to be here for a couple of hours and he’s not going to drive around Tatsuya’s block five times trying to snake out everyone else for a street space when some fucker in the next spot’s going to fuck up his bumper).

Tatsuya sees him off, pulls on his tie this time to give him a goodbye kiss.

* * *

Tatsuya meets him in front of the arena Thursday night; he’s surrounded by a few kids who are clearly basketball fans, chattering away at him about teams and players Shuuzou’s never even heard of. Tatsuya sees him and waves him over; the kids turn their eyes up to assess him. He can count down the three seconds before recognition sets in and they’re all shrieking at him; Shuuzou glances at Tatsuya, and Tatsuya shrugs as if to say, _you’re the hockey player; this was bound to happen_.

“Wait, do you know Himuro?” one of the kids says. “You play different sports!”

(As if they can’t imagine it, even as they’re seeing Tatsuya attending a hockey game.)

“I do,” says Shuuzou. “He’s trying to make a basketball fan out of me.”

“How did you even meet?”

Giving a beautiful stranger longing glances across the bar while chaperoning his barely-of-age teammates until said beautiful stranger approached is probably not the answer he should be giving, but Shuuzou hasn’t prepared a lie. He’s saved by the kids’ harried father.

“I’m so sorry; were they bothering you?”

“Not at all,” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou slumps his shoulders in relief. He wants to take Tatsuya’s hand; he probably shouldn’t here.

“Do you have the tickets?” says Tatsuya.

Shuuzou pulls them out of his pocket. “Here.”

Tatsuya reaches out; instead of taking one he grips both, his fingers grazing Shuuzou’s beneath the paper. He holds for a few seconds and then takes only the top ticket. For now, it’ll have to be enough.

Tatsuya insists on buying them both beers, and Shuuzou lets him (there will be other dates where he’ll pay for everything; the thought of that makes him smile at nothing). The Rivs are playing Buffalo; there’s a decent crowd for a weeknight (especially this early in warmups), perhaps in part due to people going stir-crazy from the shitty winter weather. God, Shuuzou hates arena seating; he spreads his legs and his knee knocks Tatsuya’s. Tatsuya grins and knocks him back, taking another sip of beer, and Shuuzou’s sweater is starting to feel a little bit warm on him.

“She’s a great skater,” Tatsuya says, pointing at the Buffalo captain, coasting around her end of the rink.

“Yeah, she’s the real deal. She got a hat trick in the final of last year’s worlds,” says Shuuzou. “She’s Canadian, though, so not so good for us.”

“They won?”

“Yeah. She was the MVP,” says Shuuzou. “She deserved it, though.”

Tatsuya nods, scanning the players at both ends. Shuuzou hasn’t had much of a chance to watch him watch hockey so far—they’ve talked about the game a lot, and they’ve watched highlights together, but not much more than that. From what Shuuzou gathers, Tatsuya hadn’t followed hockey at all until he’d moved to New York and become a huge Devils fan (and he’s never played, never even skated). There’s perhaps nothing unusual about that, but Shuuzou spends most of his time around people who have been immersed in hockey, trapped in pond ice since they were kids, practically born with skates and helmets attached. Everyone else, for the most part, is a casual hockey fan at best, but Tatsuya’s passed that threshold a while back.

There’s no doubting Tatsuya’s enthusiasm; even when he plays everything so close to his chest he bleeds his hand here with the way he follows the plays, his hand clenched on his knee or his thumb pressing hard at the lip of his beer can when the puck gets into the Rivs’ zone, the way he feeds off the collective energy of the crowd.

The Rivs score first, a beauty of a slapshot off a saucer pass above the goalie’s shoulder; she barely has time to register it before it flies past her. Shuuzou wants to kiss Tatsuya in celebration; the look Tatsuya gives him says he wants that, too, and that makes it a little bit harder not to; he settles for Tatsuya bumping his shoulder.

That’s the high point in the game, though; it wakes Buffalo up and the next forty-seven minutes of play seem to take place exclusively in the Riveters’ zone. The three unanswered goals are only unsurprising in that there are so few, and that only one comes from their captain. None of them is soft; the defense is leaving the goalie out to dry here and Shuuzou hates that. He clenches his jaw; it’s like that shit game he’d played in Denver last month that he really wishes the team could have back; he tries not to think about that too much—this is supposed to be a break from work—and ends up focusing on Tatsuya’s glare, as if he’s trying to stare hard enough to move the puck out of the zone himself.

Shuuzou’s had to stop to sign a few autographs and take a few selfies during intermissions; Tatsuya finds it amusing for some goddamn reason, even as they’re exiting the building after the end of the game.

“You’re famous,” Tatsuya says.

“You’ve been recognized, too. And I’m a hockey player at a hockey game.”

Tatsuya hums. “Can I tweet a selfie of us?”

“Sure,” says Shuuzou.

After all, they have to squeeze in tight to both fit in the frame, and if Shuuzou’s arm winds its way around Tatsuya’s waist, it’s just a side effect. He doesn’t let go as Tatsuya taps out a caption ( _tough loss @nyriveters but always fun to catch a game with @nijimura__9_ ) and only a few seconds after Tatsuya sends it out does he step away.

“You drove?”

“Yeah,” says Shuuzou.

He takes the back route home, avoiding as much of the gameday traffic toward the city as he can; it’s a little bit longer in terms of absolute distance but it’ll take less now. He cranks the radiator up maybe a little too high; he’s starting to sweat as they pull into his driveway. He flicks off the ignition, and looks across the center console at Tatsuya and, God. He feels like a fucking hormonal teenager right now, but he’s been wanting to kiss and touch Tatsuya all damn game and here they are, in the warmth and semidarkness, and fuck it.

Tatsuya’s already reaching for him and they meet across the console, hands clawing at clothing, lips smashed together; Tatsuya’s been craving this contact as much as Shuuzou has and fuck it. Shuuzou hasn’t had sex in a car since he lived with his parents but it’s warm and he doesn’t want to wait. The logistics of this soon catch up with him, though; he’s halfway onto the console and trying to climb over into the back but it’s really not working and his shoulder is jammed against the ceiling. He pulls back, and Tatsuya gives him a look that says there’s a bed a few meters away and this is a terrible idea, and Shuuzou can’t deny those counts.

“Yeah, okay,” he says.

Two seconds and they’re around the front of the car; Shuuzou’s kissing Tatsuya before he’s double-checked the lock, his free hand is tangled in Tatsuya’s already-messy hair and Tatsuya’s tongue is on his teeth and his body is flush against Shuuzou’s, and fuck. Shuuzou’s got half a mind to strip right there in the driveway, but that’s not why they’d gotten out of the car.

Tatsuya’s hand finds its way into the empty back pocket of Shuuzou’s jeans, and stays there as they make their way up to the porch, and right now Shuuzou really wishes he’d only locked the top lock today. Tatsuya’s not particularly impatient as Shuuzou steadies his hands to undo all three, fully occupied with bumping Shuuzou’s hip and groping his ass until finally the door is open and they’re inside. Shuuzou pulls Tatsuya into the kitchen and picks him up; Tatsuya squeaks (and this is absolutely the wrong time to pause and delight in how he’s finally succeeded in catching Tatsuya off-guard) and Shuuzou sets him down on the counter and clasps Tatsuya’s hands in his.

Shuuzou’s so glad he always leaves the kitchen light on. He’s got such a good view of Tatsuya’s flushed cheeks, parted lips, dilated pupil, how he’s already breathing hard and ragged but trying not to let it show. He kisses Tatsuya again, slower and softer; Tatsuya sighs into his mouth and tugs at Shuuzou’s hands, pulling him forward so he’s pinned between the counter and Tatsuya’s knees.

“Bed?” says Tatsuya.

“Bed,” says Shuuzou.

Somehow they make it upstairs, letting go of their hands enough to pull at each other’s clothing and make up for every touch and kiss they couldn’t have earlier, collapsing half-dressed on Shuuzou’s bed. They don’t last as long as Shuuzou would have preferred, but he’s never been more sure that they’re going to have more opportunities (and better ones at that). He’s especially sure when they’re collapsed in a heap on the bed and Tatsuya pushes back Shuuzou’s hair and kisses his forehead, murmuring something half in Japanese and half in English about cleaning up before he pulls Shuuzou off to take a shower.

Shuuzou’s drifting off to sleep afterward, one arm pulling Tatsuya against his chest, when Tatsuya sighs ever-so-softly.

“Shuu?”

“Mm?”

“I had a nice time tonight. Thank you.”

“Me, too.”

Shuuzou’s voice is clogged with sleep already; he can feel the vibrations of Tatsuya’s laugh as he slips into a dream.


End file.
